


These Unspeakable Words

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, Blind Dean, Epistolary, First Kiss, Flashbacks, M/M, Married Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, PTSD, Pining, Pining Castiel, Soldier Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:54:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9914168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Castiel volunteers for the Union Army in April, 1862. Events at home continue without him, and he copes as best he can.*see author's note for more information on the UST*





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo today I had a boring all day meeting. I'm incapable of sitting still but I couldn't just sit and play on my phone all day so instead I grabbed a note pad and wrote this story.
> 
> I'm going to write a short timestamp that is non-epistolary and addresses the UST. Castiel has a very narrow point of view; things aren't actually as bad as he thinks. (I love unreliable narrators, have you ever noticed? :) )

Dear Dean                                           April 8th 1862

I’ve arrived at camp outside Columbus. Rumor says there has been a great battle to the south and that we will march immediately. We have not even been issued uniforms yet and I still do not know how to fire a rifle. You would laugh.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           April 20th 1862

It is ungodly hot in Mississippi. We march toward Corinth. At least the pace is so slow that we’ve had time to learn the basics of soldiery, but illness and boredom run rampant. The veterans of Shiloh treat us like naive puppy dogs and speak of horrors as simple truth. I dread our first battle. You were right when you said that I was unsuited to this life, but you were wrong, dead wrong, I’d not wish this on you or anyone for all the world. I’m glad you are safe at home. I’m glad you’ll never know this toil. I’m even glad you are with Lisa, which is perhaps the clearest proof of how truly terrible being in the army is.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           June 2nd 1862

We are being transferred East to Washington. I begin to suspect I will never see home again. I begin to suspect I will never see you again. How selfish of me to lament that when you have never seen at all. If I could, I’d give you my life, my eyes, my strength. If I could, I’d give you everything. It scares me how profoundly, how sincerely, I mean that. I miss you.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           July 21st 1862

I’ve a letter from Mrs. Winchester that the date is set for October 2nd. I will endeavor to procure leave because I know how much it means to you that I attend your wedding. I’m glad you’ll never see the heartbreak on my face.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           September 2nd 1862

I’ve finally experienced my first battle. It was awful beyond my power of expression. You, more than any, understand what it means for me to say: it defied description. I have no words. But even could I tell you, I’d not. I know your imagination. I’d not gift you the nightmares I’ve survived. Yet in the midst of blood and fire and smoke all I could think – ALL I could think – was how little I wished to attend the wedding. I’m sorry I’m not the friend that you deserve.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

September 18th, 1862

It hurts, Dean. It hurts.

* * *

Dear Dean                                           October 2nd 1862

I wished to die at Antietam. I courted oblivion so that I’d not have to see the proof that you love Lisa, that you wish her to be your eyes for the rest of your life. Even knowing it to be impossible, even knowing that were it possible, you’d still not want me, I wish...

I wish you joy, Dean. I wish you never know how relieved I am to spend your wedding day in a DC hospital surrounded by strangers who neither know nor care why I cry.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           October 14th 1862

I met the President today. He is irreverent and friendly, sociable and friendly. He reminded me of you. I think you’d like him, It should be you in a uniform, you leading men. As relieved as I am to know that you are not in danger, that you’ll never suffer as the multitude of men around me have suffered, I know you’d be brilliant. You could be the next Lincoln, Dean. How you’d scoff if I said that to you. No matter how often I tell you that you are not defined by your lack, you refuse to believe it even as you achieve more than any of your fellows, including myself. I hope Lisa tells you every day how capable, how skilled, how hard working, how remarkable you are. If she does not, she doesn’t deserve you. I have to believe she deserves you. I have to believe you are happy.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           November 2nd 1862

Lisa has a very fine hand. As much as I appreciate her writing on your behalf I know these are not your words. These are not your feelings, your expressions. I’m glad she’s reading my letters – my actual letters, not these unspeakable words – and sharing the contents with you, but I’d give anything to read your true sentiments. I’d give anything to hear your voice again.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           November 12th 1862

I returned to active duty today. Nurse Barnes told me not to. She says I’m not well enough. She says I will sicken and die. She is another plain spoken person with whom I think you’d forge a deep friendship. However she is too wise; I fear she suspects my feelings. She told me I matter. She might even be right. But I don’t matter to you, not the way I wish I mattered to you. I begin to accept: I do not wish to return home, not when you no longer need me.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           December 14th 1862

Yesterday was the worst day of my life. I may look alive but I am not. We cannot unexperience the fires of hell. Every man of us is damned, for the things we’ve done to our fellow men, for the things we’ve allowed to happen to our fellow men, for the suffering we have perpetrated, perpetuated, ignored, exacerbated. We are divided from the world of light and joy, we are divided from the future, we are divided from salvation, as surely as the lost in Purgatory. I hope I never see you again. I couldn’t bear you not recognizing the timbre of my voice, the callouses on my hands, the raggedness of my gait, the steadiness of my presence. I’m not the man I was. I suppose none of us are; we are born anew each day to witness the sunrise, hear the birds, feel the wind, smell the forest floor, taste the crisp bite of winter on the air. Yet, born today, I could not be more list to the world were I dead in truth. All I see are visions of yesterday, suffering in more forms than a merciful God would allow to exist. All I hear are screams and moans and whimpers and pleas for succor that never comes. All I smell is rot and decay and gunpowder. All I taste is blood. And I feel nothing. I am dead, Dean. I’m sorry.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           December 31st 1862

As this terrible year of our Lord 1862 comes to a close I find my thoughts entirely on you. We are miserable, hip deep in mud and misery. Two weeks back I thought myself forsaken but in the days since then I’ve realized I do have a North Star that leads me on to hope and light. It’s you, Dean. Your smile is as bright as the sun. Your eyes are as brilliant as the clearest crystal, a false mask that causes those around you to discredit how insightful, how intelligent, how capable you are. I could list your every feature and wax eloquent, the lines of your face, the fall of your hair, the brush of your hand against mine, each detail is etched into my memory, etched into my very soul. The mere memory of your voice is ambrosia to me, Dean. I must see you again. I must bask in the glory and joy of your presence once more. I’ll never forget when we met for the first time, when I accompanied you through the forest, when you experienced so much that your family had insisted was out of your reach. You turned to me with tears in your eyes and said I’d saved you. For years that memory has haunted me. You were so happy, but your salvation was my doom. I was lost that day, lost in sin, forsaken for the patter you caused in my heart and the shameful lust that thickened me. I was raised to believe that love was a blessing, God’s gift to bring joy to his favored children. I could not fathom why I was cursed to feel such affection, so impossible, so out of reach. What sin in my youth had broken me? But today, as I reflect on the year that was, for the first time I suppose this is not a punishment. As futile and agonizing as my feelings for you have often been, you have sustained me through this terrible journey. You are my light. You are my Lord, now that I am among God’s forsaken, the few who break the sworn commandments and damn ourselves so that the others of our nation may live free and seek fulfillment and heaven. You are my heaven, Dean. You have saved me over and over and over again.

I deliberately took fire at Antietam and Fredericksburg in the hopes that I would die.

You have sustained me.

I want to survive. I want to see you again. I need you, even if you no longer need me. In this diary, this private place, I admit that I’ve never dared confess to a soul. I love you, Dean.

                                                                Forever, your Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           January 24th 1862

Happy birthday, Dean.

I’ve not written in days.

My frantic scrawlings committed to these pages have been my sanctuary, my escape, the only honesty in a lifetime of lies and secrecy. Yet, of late, I’ve been strangely at peace. I think now I see why. Before this thrice-damned war, I was agonizingly naive, though I believed myself worldly and wise. The only time I’d ever raised a hand in anger was in your defense, and how glad I am that you scarce know how often I had to do so.

I am certain that I have killed seven men. Others likely passed as well but I’ve no way to be sure. I’ve shot them. I used a bayonet on one. I bashed in the head of another with the butt of my rifle. I’ve met their eyes. I’ve been splattered with their blood. I’ve heard their last words. I’ve widowed wives, left children fatherless, left mothers without their sons.

Only as an undeniable, irredeemable sinner do I now understand the profound innocence of my past. The warrior I’ve become has been washed clean; my baptism by blood has exculpated my past sins. Scoured, I am remade.

As I feared, you will surely not recognize me when I return home, but this man I am now is, as ever, your

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           March 11th 1863

As the days and months settle into the steady rhythm of army life it is easy to be lulled into a false sense of peace and security. I am used to the vague terror of existence that is the daily knowledge that we might march to battle tomorrow, might be laid low by illness, might succumb to accident. Death is daily here, unremarkable, unremarked on, irrelevent. Death can no longer shock me.

I’ve received a letter from your mother.

I’ve just completed my reply to her, and a letter of the pretty lies that I can share with you knowing Lisa will be the filter through which you will receive my sentiment, the voice you’ll hear instead of mine.

In private?

Let them all be damned for this. You deserve to be a father more than any man I know and the joy I send on your behalf is genuine but I can do math. I can count the months back to when this child was conceived, when her bump would show, when the wedding was. I am no fool to miss that NO ONE saw fit to mention this to me before. Why was I left in the dark? Did you truly consent to this marriage or did Mr. and Mrs. Winchesters, always so loving, always so understanding, exercise their influence in the name of “proper” and “right” as if there never was a Kate and Adam Milligan?

If they’d told me I’d have intervened.

And it would have been wrong of me. I know you love Lisa, regardless of when you and she began sharing relations. I know you want to be a father, deserve to be a father. My pettiness in this regard merely proves as has been proven time and time again, that my feelings render me selfish, undeserving, blind toward the merits of those around you as they are blind to your virtues, as you are blind to their flaws. I’ve tried to tell you before, Dean, whether our eyes work or not, we are every one of us unseeing.

                                                                Forever your Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           May 1st 1863

For your sake I will strive to survive the coming battle. I see now that those I trusted to protect you – Sam, especially – have not looked out for your interests.

                                                                Forever yours, Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           May 10th 1863

In the quiet, endless, dreadful lulls in battle I see how thoroughly selfish I have become. Even in the depths of my mind I should want you to be healthy and happy. I should dismiss my unfair bias against Lisa. I should repeat the words “your wife” until the sting fades. Instead I dwell and the wound festers and I grow bitter to realize how side lined and forgotten I’ve become over the past year. Your mother is now the only person from home who writes to me. Though I do live – though I yet wish to live, I think – I feel a ghost. And I wonder – do you ever think of me? I’m not sure which I’d prefer; if you do, does it sadden you? Do my letters make you wistful? Or am I forgotten, in the dizziness of wife and baby? You deserve that peace, surely. But I don’t want you to forget me.

                                                                Forever your selfish Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           June 1st 1863

I was offered leave. I declined. I’ve stopped writing. Enjoy your wife. Enjoy your child. Forget the friend of your youth. James is gone forever. There is only Castiel now. I cannot ask you to bring to your bosom the devil that I have become. I can be unselfish. I can be the man you deserve as a friend. I can fade into the sunset, disappear into the night, keep the shine of your star just in sight but ever out of reach.

                                                                Forever your Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           June 21st 1863

Mrs. Winchester’s letters could not be more painful were every word a bullet in my flesh. In unkind moments I think it intentional. She is a keen observer of those around her and in the army I’ve learned that men like I are not so uncommon. There whispers and moans in the quiet depths of night and many cannot afford prostitutes. So perhaps she suspects? But I think not. She has been ever supportive of me, took me in when my parents died, recently wrote that she sees me as a third son. I’d say I care for her as my own mother but that would be unkind to Mrs. Winchester. No, I think her enthusiasm and effusiveness on your behalf sincere. When she names Lisa the daughter she never had, waxes on Benjamin, it is obliviousness, callousness, self-centeredness she is guilty of, not deliberate cruelty. It doesn’t matter she pierces me through. And I’m convinced that her good-natured indifference to the needs and desires of others pushed you into marriage before you were ready. If I could ask you one question with the promise of absolute truth in reply, it would be, “is this what you wanted?” And how I hope you’d answer yes. If I could but hear the happiness in your voice, know that you are well pleased with your life, I think the last hints of the disquiet in my soul would grow silent. But I cannot force your confidence, and my selfishness has – or should have – disqualified me from deserving your trust. Yet nonetheless I am ever your

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           July 5th 1863

I can scarce write for my hand shaking. I am too shocked to write you direct. To survive three days beyond description, to see our oft beaten and demoralized army win the day, and then to return to camp and receive your letter.

You do care.

You do miss me.

You’re sorry.

What does it mean that Sam, not Lisa, held the pen in your name?

What does it mean that you mourn for me?

What does it mean that you check the lists every day to ensure I live?

What does your care mean? Your regrets? Your apologies?

What the damned hell do you have to apologize for?

I will write back. I will apologize – no, I will prostrate myself with words, I will abase myself in prose, I will strive to be gifted the forgiveness that this God-forsaken soul can never hope to earn. But I will say nothing until I can quell the wild speculation that runs rampant in my heart. Your words – so faithfully transcribed by your brother, so true to life that I read them and hear voice – have given me hope. Until I can repress that hope, until I can bury it in the darkest corner of my blackened Godly grace, I cannot trust myself to speak the words I ought. I cannot – I will not – I do not dare hope.

                                                                Forever your Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           July 28th 1863

My fellow soldiers spent an evening comparing pictures of their sweethearts and wives. With blushing cheeks the spoke of their lustful thoughts, the tender touches they cannot mimick, the names breathed to the quiet of the night. They asked me my thoughts and I said nothing.

It’s your picture I gaze upon.

It’s your name I whisper.

It’s your touch I imagine when I touch myself.

God how I want you Dean.

                                                                Forever your Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           September 14th 1863

I’ve received your mother’s letter.

I’ve been granted two weeks leave.

I’m going home.

I’m going back to you.

You’re home.

                                                                Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           September 16th 1863

I meant to never write again. The ash of my journal yet blackens the lines of my knuckles and palms. But I cannot contain these feelings. I cannot speak them. I’ve never felt so completely alone, not even after my family died, not even on the battlefield. To return home to be greeted by you with your eyes filled with tears, to feel your arms around me as your grief overcame you, to suffer your pain even as my traitorous heart blossomed with ludicrous, unfulfillable hope. My darling, precious, dearest Dean! Would that you had not been dealt this loss! If I could...but I’ll not engage in vacuous declarations of transferring your suffering to myself. Its impossible and even if it could be done it’d not be the same. I cannot mourn Lisa as you do for I never loved her as you do. I have too much knowledge now of how cheap life is to find value in hers. My jealousy and selfishness eclipse her goodness. The only apology I can make for that is to be there for you for as long as I may. The days are endless yet I have but eleven left and I know I shall blink and they’ll be gone.

You are so much more beautiful than I remembered. I could fill an infinity of pages, spill an ocean of ink, describing every detail of your person, every nuance of your flawless personality, every glimmer of blinding light that shines within your soul. I’d call you perfect but the word is used so commonly and baselessly to describe the passing debutante of the day that its meaning has become debased and senseless. You are everything, Dean. You are my everything. If I can be anything to you – if I can be your shoulder to cry on, your arms to provide comfort, your pillar to give support, your eyes to help you navigate these dark days – that will be enough.

It will have to be enough.

I cannot – am not permitted – to do more.

But oh, if I could, Dean, I’d destroy this shell I’ve become to be the person – the man – that you could love and rely on. The version of me who could have deserved that, your James, is dead and gone unmourned. I can pretend to be him on these dire days of your need and spare you mourning two deaths. The ‘me’ I am now has the courage to reach for you but has lost the worthiness to deserve you. I don’t fear these emotions any longer. I will never again believe that love, whatever form it takes, is a sin. I’ve stared true evil in the face time and time again, and seen the heights of goodness and bravery and self-sacrifice that my fellow man is capable of. I have done great evil. I will strive to emulate the best of man. As long as you need me to pretend to be James, I will hide this angel of death Castiel from your sight. It is the ultimate kindness that my selfish self can manage: pretend that your best friend yet lives, and hide from your unseeing, crystalline keen insight that my acknowledged feelings for you are anything but friendly, anything but noble.

I’m glad you cannot see how my cheeks flush when I stare at your lips as you speak, stare at your tongue as it dampens away the chap, and imagine how you could pleasure me, how I could pleasure you insensible until you never thought of Lisa again, never remembered yourself a widower.

I cannot be your demon so I will do my damnedest to be your angel.

                                                                Forever and ever and ever your Castiel

* * *

Dear Dean                                           September 27th 1863

I’m leaving. I’ll not write again, not in private. I have no more words to consign to these pages. My hope will not be snuffed. As I return to the army, with the intention of seeing this war through or dying in the atempt, I let James, the old me, go once and for all. When I return home when this bloody crucible is done, you will meet Castiel, the man I’ve become. I’ll pretend to be my naive self for 2 weeks because I love you, but I cannot do it forever, always in dread of how you’ll react if you ever catch a glimpse beneath my mask.

Dare I hope that you’ll accept me?

The version of you I’ve seen these past two weeks – the mourning widower, the loving father, the concerned dear friend, the beloved son and brother – is not the same carefree man I left behind when I volunteered. We are both of us forever changed by our experiences. The only constant for me has been you.

I think, perhaps, I have been your Polaris as well.

However long it takes, I’ll come home to you, Dean, and perhaps we can find our way to each other.

Despite everything, I still have hope.

                                                                Forever.

                                                                Yours,

                                                                James Castiel Novak


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh...I didn't want to leave things awful so here, have a second chapter. But now I'm done with this. :)

“Chicago, next stop! Get your sorry arses to the doors for Chi-ca-go!” The conductor was scarce audible over the cacophony of disparate conversations. Though Castiel stood beside him, he scarce heard the words for the cheering that erupted to hear Chicago announced. Soldiers were packed cheek-by-jowl in the stock car like so many cattle.

_Led to slaughter like so many—_

_—the works before them ablaze with fire, obscured by thick gray smoke, men falling and screaming all around, blood making red mist in the air, running in rivulets over the ground, the endless rattle of gunfire—_

_—no it’s over now I’m livestock no longer. I’m a man again. I’m alive again. I’m going home._

The train pulled into the station as Castiel pulled himself from his memories. Men whooped and crowed so loudly that the thin metal walls surrounding them rattled and hummed, and the stomping of a thousand feet, ten thousand feet, marked the last march of this fine army.

_—the ground roared like thunder under their steps, the colonnades of Pennsylvania Avenue shook with their march as the people of Washington cheered on the victorious army—_

“Soldier, is this your stop?” asked the conductor beside him, gruff voice sympathetic. The car was nearly empty, only a few forlorn men remaining to continue the journey on into Wisconsin and their distant homes.

“Yes, thank you,” Castiel replied. He didn’t recognize his voice. He used it so rarely now. He had nothing to say, nothing to share that anyone here would want to here. He could never tell them—

_—his flesh tearing and searing as he fell screaming to be trampled by the brogans of the next line of soldiers so accustomed to death and injury, so terrified to advance, so steeled in will, that they trod over a fallen comrade rather than risk their nerve breaking, and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt—_

The limp left from that day skewed Castiel’s steps. The car rocked beneath his shifting weight, too light for the burden it had born. Men had died in similar cars when they’d broken.

_—the smell and sound of men burning, the smell and sound of men yet alive though grapeshot had ripped them to shreds, the smell and sound of men rotting as they lived, the smell and sound of men shot for desertion, always death, everywhere death, not a one of them would ever be free—_

The scene on the platform was beyond overwhelming. Castiel stopped at the edge, a single step out of the train, and tried to keep panic at bay. Men everywhere laughed and cried and shouted. Women swooned with joy, wept with happiness, embraced and kissed and hugged their loved ones, patting their shoulders as if only physical contact could prove to them that the apparition before them was real. The ghosts had returned from their living death.

_—the open grave reeked, dug shallow and wide, men and parts of men thrown in like refuse, shoveling, shoveling, but there wasn’t enough dirt in the world to prevent Castiel’s vision of their ever-open eyes, their gaping wounds, their mouths locked open, their tongues swollen black within, and beside him another soldier used charcoal to write on flimsy board, “here lies 53 rebels”—_

Children duck and wove throughout, most not old enough to understand the elation surrounding them. Castiel wanted to duck, wanted to hide, wanted to find the nearest trench and ensconce himself behind it for safety. There was too much noise, too much movement. His eyes darted everywhere at once. Behind him, something brushed his bag and he whirled around so quickly he nearly lost his balance, his weakened hip scarce supporting his weight. The train was pulling out, and he’d stopped so short before it that the car had snagged on him as it went by. Heart pounding, his hand fumbled uncontrollably at his waist for the pistol he no longer wore. He was surrounded by armed men – a rifle was too valuable to give up and the army had said they could keep them – but Castiel had discarded his as soon as he could. Living without the protection of his gun was terrifying, but he was more frightened of what he might do if he were armed. Every instinct in his head screamed for him to raise arms and open fire on those before him, to quiet the noise that screamed torture in his head.

_—those are men before me, men charging, men screaming, men crying, but they’ll kill me if I don’t fight, they’ll kill me, they’re the enemy, they’re not men, they’re not humans, they are demons, howling demons, the only way to fight demons is to become a demon, I’m a demon, I’m not a man, and demons can kill men with impunity knowing they’ll burn in hell regardless—_

“You alright there, soldier?” A woman laid a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and he recoiled from the touch. Her eyes widened, then lowered sympathetically. She stood with an arm around the waist of a man, both of whose sleeves were knotted, dangling at his sides.

_—“put it back on,” implored the man, holding his arm out toward Castiel. “Someone sew it back!” He’d have vomited had there been anything left in his stomach, but he’d had nothing to eat since dinner the night before and a day’s battle had seen him heaving bile. “I saved it, see?” His throat burned. “It’s still good. I’m still good. I’m good. I’m good. I’m—”_

“I’m good,” said Castiel sharply. The woman grimaced, taken aback. His stomach roiled. He’d eaten nothing in over a day. The past few months he’d been losing weight; his body was a shell of what he’d once been, just as his mind was. The double-amputee met Castiel’s eyes and Castiel saw himself reflected in them. That the other soldier understood eased the tension that buzzed like a swarm of bees trapped within Castiel’s skin.

_—sweat dripping down his face, down every face, soaking through his uniform, mosquitoes swarming all around, flies buzzing, fleas investing his clothing, lice squirming through his hair, weevils crawling through the holes in the hard tack, he itched so many places he couldn’t think, he hurt so many places he wanted to cry, the face of the soldier beside him bitten so many times it was swollen and unrecognizable—_

Breathe in. Breathe out. In small groups, people left the platform, departed for other neighborhoods, returned _home_. Castiel didn’t know where he was going. There’d be no one to watch the home his parents’ had left him and a fire had consumed it and the rest of the block. Numb, Castiel hadn’t wept when Mrs. Winchester had sent him the news. The house had been filled with ghosts; Castiel hadn’t wanted to live there again anyway. The Winchesters had suggested they’d take Castiel in, but he had no desire to impose on them. Dean and little Benjamin had been living in the family’s small cabin outside the city, and Sam and his new wife Jess lived there as well, and there was no comfortable way that the snug one room home that John Winchester had built could accommodate so many people.

_—the wind rattled the boards on the walls, gusted through like the icy fingers of death trying to reach the misbegotten souls with in, the room was spacious by camp standards but there was no firewood and it was cold, so cold, so frigid, Castiel’s fingers showed blue by the gray light of twilight, he and his bunkmates huddled together on the floor, all their blankets combined to give what warmth they could, God, Lafitte was handsome and he reminded Castiel of Dean and they’d get along so well if only they met and Castiel missed Dean and there was so much warm flesh around him and—_

His eyes slipped open to show him the empty platform. The families had left. His fellow soldiers had left. Everyone had homes to return to, people to return to, lives to return to. Castiel had nothing, and the only thing – the only _person_ – he wanted was ever out of reach. Hoisting his pack on his slumped shoulders, dejected, Castiel forced himself to take a step forward.

_—I’m never getting home, I’m never escaping hell, no, I can’t give up, I have to see Dean again, I can march one step farther, I can keep my eyes open one hour longer, I can load my gun one more time, I can shoot at one more enemy, I can, I can, I can, I—_

“Jimmy?”

Castiel’s throat tightened; an attempt to breathe choked him. Eyes wide, he looked around for Dean, for salvation, and…there he was. Alone. Hesitant. His head moved slowly from side to side as if his clear eyes could see, his lips fixed in a flat, unhappy line. One of his hands rested on the bricks of the archway that separated the platform from the street beyond, the other clutched a walking stick held before him so that it would strike an obstruction before him.

Castiel had _never_ seen Dean unaccompanied outside of home.

_We’ve both changed. We’ve both changed so much. Changing was the only way for us to survive._

“Jim, are you…are you here?” Dean took an uncertain step forward, hand falling to his side, cane sweeping before him. Castiel tried to speak but his throat wouldn’t open; tears filled his eyes. His muscles felt weak, but he forced himself to take another step, and another, to close the unbridgeable distance that separated him from the only person in the world that mattered worth a damn. “Fecking _dammit_ , I should have gotten here earlier, I should have—” Dean’s cane struck Castiel’s calf. “I’m sorry, sir or ma’am, I didn’t—” Castiel swept Dean into his arms and Dean crumbled against him, burying his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck.

“James,” he whispered.

“I’m here, Dean.”

“You smell like shit.”

“You’re the first person I’ve been around how _doesn’t_ smell like excrement in…since the last time I was here.”

“I love when you talk like that,” murmured Dean, his lips brushing hot against Castiel’s soiled flesh. A warm glow, utterly unwarranted, clenched at Castiel’s heart. “Goddamn have I missed you, Jimmy.”

_Loving you hurts so much._

“I’m sorry I had to go,” Castiel croaked. Tears streamed, unrestrained, unrestrainable, from his eyes.

“Don’t be – don’t – I…I wish I could have gone with you, that’s all. Shoulda been me – shoulda been _us_ —”

“No,” interrupted Castiel harshly. The mangled corpses of a thousand dead men, ten thousand dead men, flickered before Castiel’s eyes. Every single body wore Dean’s face. Castiel was glad he had nothing in his stomach left to retch. Dean jerked away from him, but Castiel held him close, reached up hesitantly and pet a filthy hand through Dean’s hair. “I’m glad you didn’t…I’m glad you’re…” So many things he couldn’t say. So much silence. Dean tried to draw away from him again. Castiel should let him, knew he shouldn’t hold on if Dean wished to be apart. Silence was the watch-word of Castiel’s life. Self-restraint was his mantra. Except…

_What if…_

Castiel took a shuddering breath. “Stay close to me, Dean…?” Dean made a surprised sound. “Please…I mean…if you want…”

 _I don’t want you to ever let me go_.

“That…that really what you want?”

Terror thrummed beneath his skin, as awful as in the heat of the worst battle. “I want _you_ , Dean.”

There was a beat pause that lasted a lifetime, the moment before the blow falls, the instant before Castiel knew he was about to die.

“What does that mean?” asked Dean, but he didn’t draw away.

Heart in his throat, tears streaming down his face to nestle like dew drops in Dean’s hair, Castiel whispered, “It means I’ve loved you since the day I met you. I couldn’t…I couldn’t come _home_ and not tell you that. I can’t…I can’t…” Too many endings for the sentence crowded Castiel’s mind. No words came. Fear made Castiel hyper aware of the tension binding Dean’s shoulders, the flinch of fingers where Dean’s hand rested on the small of Castiel’s back, the wetness on Castiel’s neck where Dean’s tears fell. When Dean drew away again, Castiel let him, though devastation scoured him to his blighted soul.

Castiel closed his eyes. He couldn’t watch Dean walk away.

A finger brushed Castiel’s temple and he gasped. A light touch skimmed over his opposite ear. Thumbs pressed a caress over the ridge of each of his cheek bones. A hot palm, damp with sweat, cupped Castiel’s cheeks, and touch wiped tears from beneath Castiel’s eyes. Dean’s hands trembled against him, mapping the details of Castiel’s face, tracing his brow, his nose, his jaw, scraping through the stubble that covered his cheeks and neck. A nail flicked over his lips.

Dean’s hands fell away.

Castiel whimpered. When he opened his eyes, Dean would be gone. As long as he kept them closed, he could remember the outline of Dean come to greet him at the train station, could hold on to the phantom of happiness that Dean’s presence had brought, the first happiness…the first _anything_ … that Castiel had felt in years.

Lips met his.

Shocked, Castiel gasped, and even that slight movement separated them once more.

“Jimmy?” breathed Dean. He sounded as frightened as Castiel felt. With a choked noise, Castiel leaned forward and brought their mouths crashing together again. A vocal, surprised, sound growled in Dean’s throat, Dean’s hand returned to Castiel’s cheek, his other arm wrapped tight around Castiel’s waist and Dean powerfully pulled their bodies together, kissing Castiel passionately. Their lips moved together and apart, their tongues slicked against each other, Dean’s saliva flooded Castiel’s mouth, and desire spiked through Castiel. Abruptly, Dean tore their mouths apart, but kept holding him close, thank _God_ , kept him near, and they huddled together, panting, the scant air separating them made sultry by their breaths.

Castiel had never kissed anyone before.

He never wanted to stop kissing Dean.

“Dean?” he asked, husky, guttural.

“Shoulda done that years ago,” Dean whispered. “Wanted to…wanted to so damn many times, but I thought…”

“I know,” Castiel replied, reaching up with shaking fingers to brush Dean’s flesh. “It’s not too late.”

“Come home with me, Jimmy?” asked Dean plaintively.

The name jangled against Castiel’s nerves. When he’d enlisted, the recruiter had put the wrong name on the forms, and _James_ had been called _Castiel_ from his first day in the ranks. At first it had felt _wrong_ , but as days and weeks stretched into months and years his middle name had become comfortable, had become _himself_. Jimmy was a boy who farmed a small plot and explored the forest. Castiel was a man and a soldier.

“I’ll follow you anywhere, you must know that by now…but one thing?” Embraced in Castiel’s arms, Dean tensed. “No, no, it’s not a bad thing…don’t worry, Dean, I never want you to…but I’m not who I was when I left and…and there’s so much we have to talk about but…” He took a deep breath, let it out shakily, and said, “Would you call me _Cas_?”

“Your middle name?”

“Yeah I…I don’t go by Jimmy anymore. Is that okay?”

 _Is who I am now, this devil, this broken, injured soul, is that okay, Dean? Do you think you can care for_ Cas _as you cared for Jimmy?_

“You’re okay, Cas,” said Dean. “You’re okay now. You’re home now.”

_I’m okay now._

_I’m home now._

“I love you, Cas.”

_This can’t be real._

_I’m probably lying dead on a battlefield, blood soaking my mouth, delirious on pain, hallucinating a homecoming that will never happen._

_I don’t care._

_As long as this dream lasts forever, I don’t care if the world burns._

“Forever, Dean. I’m yours.”

**Author's Note:**

> I posted the original hand-written version of this story [here on Tumblr](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/post/157668070863/title-these-unspeakable-words-pairing-destiel) in case ya'll wanna see my crappy handwriting or have a rebloggable version (it's also transcribed in that post).
> 
> See, it didn't end so hopeless, right?


End file.
